Monthly Archives: September 2013

And now it’s time to play The Name Game!

HOST: Hello, hello, hello and welcome to another round of everyone’s favorite pastime: The Name Game! The only game where soon-to-be parents attempt to pick out a name for their unborn child while facing a series of seemingly insurmountable challenges.

I’m your host, Smiley McToothy.

Let’s meet our first contestant. Fresh off the couch and actually wearing real pants today, say hello to Aprill!

[Clap, Clap, Clap]

So, Aprill, it says here you are 20 weeks pregnant?

APRILL: That’s right, Smiley.

HOST: And you just found out you’re having a boy?

APRILL: Yes. And I have to tell you, Smiley, I couldn’t be more excited. I mean, we would have been happy no matter the gender, but I’m just thrilled with the amount of money we will save on glitter stickers alone now.

HOST: Wonderful. Wonderful. And now let’s bring out contestant No. 2, your husband, Ryan!

[Clap, Clap, Clap]

So, Ryan, this is your first child, yes?

RYAN: Yes, it is, Smiley.

HOST: And how prepared are you to be a father?

RYAN: I want to pee my pants and go hide in a corner on a pretty regular basis these days, Smiley.

HOST: Wonderful. Wonderful. Alright, onto Round One. This round is called the Spousal Veto round, where each of you will pick your top three baby names and give your opponent the chance to mercilessly mock that name and ruin it for all time. Aprill, you’re up first.

APRILL: Finn!

RYAN: I’m not naming my kid after a fish’s body part.

APRILL: Trevor!

RYAN: Oh no. Absolutely not. I went to school with a Trevor and he was just awful. He ate bugs.

APRILL: Landon!

RYAN: Are you kidding? Landon? As in Michael Landon? Why do you hate this child, woman?

HOST: Switch.

RYAN: Tobias!

APRILL: Hi, this is our son, Tobias. Here, let me take his glasses off first before you punch him in the face.

RYAN: James!

APRILL: NO! I mean, I once…um…kissed a guy named James. So I think it’s best to avoid any names that I may have…kissed…in the past.

RYAN: Leviathan! We can call him Levi for short!

APRILL: I think we should get divorced.

[Ding, Ding, Ding]

HOST: And that’s the end of Round One!

The points so far have Aprill in the lead because she is super pregnant and scary right now. On to Round Two where the points are doubled and the stakes are higher as we bring in your closest family and friends to ruin any other names you may be thinking about. Aprill, Ryan, you’re up.

APRILL AND RYAN: Riker!

COUSIN DAVE: Dude, my friend Jess’ pet rat is named Riker.

APRILL AND RYAN: Oscar!

SISTER-IN-LAW VERA: How dare you! You knew that Pete and I wanted to name our future son Oscar! You know, whenever we decide to actually have children in the next five to seven years. I can’t believe how selfish you are!

APRILL AND RYAN: Colton!

AUNT FRIDA: I once watched a porn featuring a Colton. He was delivering a pizza.

[Ding, Ding, Ding]

HOST: Oh, you hear that? That sound means it’s time for our Lightning Round! Aprill, Ryan, in this round you will shout out as many names as you can while our panel of first-graders shows you how they can turn those names into playground taunts.

Ready? And go!

APRILL: Grayson?

FIRST-GRADERS: Hey, Gayson! You a little momma’s boy, GAY-SON?

RYAN: Aiden?

FIRST-GRADERS: Yo, Gay-den! You suck, Gay-den!

APRILL: Cooper?

FIRST-GRADERS: Oh look, it’s Cooper the Pooper Scooper!

RYAN: Ethan?

FIRST-GRADERS: Hey…um…hmm…uh…Heathen! You hate God, Heathen? Go dance around a tree, Heathen!

[Ding, Ding, Ding]

HOST: And time’s up! And our winner is…nobody! Because as we all know, it’s impossible to win The Name Game! See you all next week!

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Top 10 Perks of Being Pregnant

10. People will always insist you sit down. Your mom, your significant other, your co-workers. Even the 98-year-old man with scoliosis on the subway will get up and insist you sit down. Already sitting down? No worries. They will then insist that you lie down. Being pregnant, it is practically your JOB to be lazy. That is, unless you listen to “some” people who will insist you stay physically active. But “those” people are doctors and are stupid and also don’t think fried pickles are a good idea for breakfast.

9. Everyone will also always insist you are beautiful. Family, friends, strangers, your creepy neighbor who you now suspect has some kind of weird pregnant lady fetish. Everyone will feel the need to go out of their way to tell you how beautiful you are, you beautiful sacred vessel you. Because apparently while all you see in the mirror is a sweating fatty fat mcfatterson in sweatpants who isn’t wearing any makeup and has Medusa hair, everyone else sees a glowing goddess. Just go with it.

8. Thanks to your nausea, you always get to pick the restaurant because the list of places that don’t make you want to puke is shorter than the list of places that do.

7. Laying on the couch all day in your pajamas while eating chicken wings dipped in guacamole and refusing to shower is no longer considered “sad” and “pathetic” but “good for you” because you’re busy “growing a human.”

6. Your boobs. Your boobs become…they’re just…they’re just so amazing, you guys. If you’re anything like me, for the first time in your life, you will have Playboy Playmate boobies. And as such, you will stand in front of the mirror naked all the time in awe. I mean, you could KILL a MAN with these boobs if you really wanted to! They’re that crazy BIG! So make sure to enjoy them as much as possible before your mean, selfish children exit the womb and ruin them.

5. You can blame the baby for everything. In fact, you will say “the baby made me do it” no less than 417 times during your pregnancy.

4. Being pregnant gives you the god-like power to name something. You, a mere puny human, get to determine what someone will be called for the rest of their life. Obviously, judging by the growing numbers of people named She’D’yn’asty and Periwinkle and Darth, too many parents let this power go to their head. But as they say, absolute power corrupts absolutely and hopefully little Dragon Spike Huddle will understand that someday when he’s older.

3. Want ice cream and a taco at 11 p.m.? Whoever knocked you up is pretty much legally required to go get them for you immediately. And not those tacos from that crappy joint down the street either. No, the good tacos from that place across town where the Blockbuster used to be.

2. You finally have a legitimate excuse to buy those tiny, tiny adorable shoes that are always in the window of every fancy baby boutique. And also any and all tiny adorable baby hats that make infants look like animals.

1. You pretty much get to live like a hobbit. You can eat breakfast, second breakfast and elevensies all before noon (or in some cases before 8 a.m.). You have a new determination to make your life as cozy as possible (Snuggie, Netflix, $60 worth of snacks? BOOM. You got a rockin’ weekend). The TV remote is now your precious and anyone wanting to take it away from you is likely to get their finger bitten off, Gollum-style. And your feet swell up to comically large proportions (hairy toes also possibly included depending on your genetics).

So, you’re telling me I’m not the Mother of Dragons?

Guys, I have good news and I have bad news.

The bad news is that I will not, in fact, be giving birth to a dragon and hence will not be known as the mother of dragons forevermore. Which wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t for the fact that I now have to send back all those custom T-shirts.

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But the good news is that I am pregnant with a human. A very healthy little…(drumroll)…boy.

A boy!

I have absolutely no idea how that’s going to end up considering I still don’t understand grown men with that particular body part (fried eggs don’t belong on pizza OR cheeseburgers, guys). But I’m going to be super excited about it until the first time he pees in my face when I’m trying to change his diaper.

I have a whole, long post dedicated to the ultrasound that led to this big gender reveal, which I will post later, but for now just wanted to share the good (or bad if you were REALLY hoping for a dragon…sorry, Ryan…maybe next time, honey) news with you.

(Or at least with the one of you that actually cares…hi mom *waves enthusiastically*).

Pregnancy: Farting for the greater good

So, I’m still pregnant.

I know! I feel like I’ve been pregnant forever too. In fact, I’m having trouble remembering a time when I wasn’t pregnant.

(Just kidding. I remember all too well. I have nightly lucid dreams in which I drink Scotch and smoke cigars while taking a bath in Diet Coke and stuffing my face with unpasteurized soft cheeses. In these dreams, I also occasionally end up in a compromising position with the guy who played tuba in my high school marching band, except he has the voice of Morgan Freeman and is secretly Ironman. But I’m blaming the baby’s subconscious for that one).

For those of you keeping score at home, I am now officially 18 weeks pregnant. Yup. Not even halfway there yet, folks.

(Interesting side note: Although medically I am considered 18 weeks pregnant, technically I’ve only been pregnant for 16 weeks. For some reason, they count the two weeks before you actually conceive. Why the discrepancy, you ask? Best I can figure, it’s a conspiracy that goes all the way to the top of the OB/GYN community. I’m 92 percent sure there is a secret society of vagina doctors somewhere who meet in a creepy torch-lit dungeon, where they trade tips on how to keep their hands freezing cold at all times and have a good laugh over making women with pregnancy brain do bad math).

Of course, I shouldn’t be complaining. Now that I’m safely ensconced in the second trimester, its pretty much been smooth sailing, minus some (or perhaps a bit more on the “a lot” side of) baby-induced flatulence that has both my husband and my dog looking at me in sheer awe.

“Oh my God, that was YOU!? We bow down to your superior farting skills. From hence forth, we shall blame you, our new queen, for our own farts.”

And truth be told, pregnancy isn’t all THAT bad, despite my snarky yet HI-larious observations to the contrary (such as here and here and here). I mean, for nine months of misery, you get an entire human being out of the deal, so…I mean, I’m not that good at math or anything (see above) but that seems like a fairly decent return on your investment. Especially if you factor in the method of how you actually make a baby, which is generally SUPER fun unless you’re doing it VERY wrong.

Yes, perhaps it’s the fact I finally stopped puking or that I’m finally looking “pregnant” as opposed to “just ate her own weight in tacos,” but I’m feeling a bit warm and fuzzy these days. Maybe even, dare I say, maternal?

But most likely this change in attitude is because I now have proof of life. Proof that something besides gas and cheeseburgers is living in my ever-growing abdomen. Proof that the violent mood swings are because I’m growing a human and not because I’m crazy…hahaha…nope, not crazy! You hear that, honey? I’m not crazy! Chasing you with that hammer because you left the toilet seat up is totally normal, babe! Hahaha! (Voice drops an octave) BRING ME PICKLE JUICE. NOW.

Yes, I felt the baby, my baby, kick for the first time. There I was, sitting on the couch reading Vogue at six in the morning because I couldn’t fall back asleep thanks to my body now thinking getting up before the sun is a daily challenge it must and will meet. When out of nowhere, BOOM. Or…well, more like lower-case boom (considering the kid weighs as much as a chicken breast currently). A tiny flutter followed by what felt distinctly like a poke.

So naturally I did what any mature, sophisticated woman on the brink of motherhood would do: I ran into the bedroom and jumped on the bed like a little kid to wake my husband.

“I felt the baby kick, honey! I felt the baby kick! Which means we are actually having a baby! Er…well, since technically we haven’t seen it yet I guess it could be a dragon or something but the point is, the baby/possible dragon is ALIVE! AHHH!”

I couldn’t help myself. At the risk of sounding like a cliché, it was truly one of those life-changing moments. The moment when I realized the magnitude of what was happening: My husband and I had created a person.

I wasn’t just farting.

I was farting for a cause.

And while I’m sure I’ll go back to complaining and bitching and moaning, for now I’m just going to revel in this moment. This moment where for the first time it feels like we, me and this baby, are in this together.

Letter to my unborn child

Dear My Unborn Child,

So…uh…hey, I guess. How are you? I’m fine. Yup. Um…so how ’bout them Red Sox, huh?

Sorry this is so awkward. Truth be told, we hardly even know each other. I mean, all I really know about you currently is that you are violently opposed to Chinese food and all you really know about me is that I eat way too much cheese. So this whole trend just seems a bit ridiculous.

Oh wait, you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, what with you being busy forming eyeballs and a pancreas and all. Let me fill you in real quick. Apparently, in this day and age, any parent or parent-to-be with a keyboard and a Starbucks wifi password is required to write some cheesy letter to their future offspring and then publish it in a public forum. The general goal of this exercise, at least as far as I can tell, is to express their hopes and dreams for the said child and to make random people repost the link on Facebook along with comments like “This is soooo true. I’m totally wiping away the tears after reading this.”

Now normally I am not one to blindly follow the crowd (regrettably jumping on the Twilight bandwagon notwithstanding) but I’m on deadline and need something to write about anyway so, eh, why not? What could it hurt? (Except for your fragile young psyche and self-esteem, that is).

So, I guess to start off with, the first thing I’d like to tell you is that I never want to hear you say you want to be famous when you grow up. (Want to know the quickest way to break your Momma’s heart? Star in a reality TV series). Now that’s not to say I don’t want you to be successful. Or rich. Powerful? Go for it. Influential? Hell yes. Be the white Oprah, baby. But don’t just aim to be “famous.” You know who’s famous? Kim Kardashian and Grumpy Cat. Who are they, you ask, since you are probably reading this at least five to eight years in the future? Exactly.

I know I don’t know your gender yet, but if you happen to be a girl, don’t ever say you deserve to be treated like a princess. This is ‘Merica, sweetheart. People died so we wouldn’t have to deal with princesses anymore. And if you happen to be a boy, never date a woman, or a gay man, who thinks they deserve to be treated like a princess. You want a partner in life, not someone who buys pink tutus for their dog.

Be a nerd. Oh please, please be a nerd. Or a geek. I’ll settle for geek. Cause nerds and geeks end up being the best people.

Don’t sexually assault anyone. Ever. I know that might seem like an odd thing to say or even something that goes without saying, but considering the scary large number of rapes that happen every year, it’s obvious not enough parents are teaching their kids to not rape anyone.

Don’t be “that” guy. And if you happen to be in a crowd of people and don’t see “that” guy, then you are “that” guy. And we need to have a LONG talk about where your father and I went wrong.

Enjoy all things in moderation. Except for cheese. Cause cheese is awesome.

Don’t do drugs. It’s such a cliché.

My child will NEVER be a linejumper. You hear me? One of the things that makes this country so great is our superb standing in line skills. And I will not have you sullying the efforts of our forefathers who had to beat up countless linejumpers in order to give us the freedom to stand in line today without worrying about some brat trying to break the rules.

Be kind to animals. Because if you’re not, I’m going to have countless sleepless nights where I worry that you’ll grow up to be a serial killer.

Above all, I want you to be happy. Although preferably happy and with a well-paying job so that you can buy Daddy and me our dream retirement home in New Zealand.

Now typically these things end with some grand pronouncements of how much I love you and always will and how I loved you before I knew you and you are my heart and other flowery crap and glitter and unicorn farts.

Which is all true, of course.

And you already know that. Or at least you will.

So let’s end it instead in a style much more suited to our family:

If you keep making me fart every time I sneeze, I swear to all that is holy I’ll ground you until you start kindergarten.

Love,

Mom